


A Study in Blood

by oopswrongcookie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Other, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:25:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9541460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oopswrongcookie/pseuds/oopswrongcookie
Summary: Deductions and Vampires.- A retelling of A Study in Scarlet w/ non-cannon and cannon characters -





	

_From the diary of Jonathan M. Watson, PhD._

I returned from the dead in a state of confusion. A violent end will do that to a person and I was wholly unprepared to find myself locked in a refrigeration unit in St. Bart’s morgue. My cries for help and knocking my fists against the walls gained the attention of someone. The door opened and light flooded the small compartment. It was then that I realized that I had been able to see my surroundings, even in the pitch black.

Elle Stamford stared down at me, long dark hair gathered into a neat bun, and too much kohl eyeliner around her eyes. “Hello Jon,” she said.

I wished I were dead. Elle and I had not parted on the best of terms. What we’d fought about I couldn’t remember, but I’d come back to our flat one morning to find my belongings neatly boxed in the hallway and the locks changed. “Elle,” I said her name carefully. “How are you?”

She narrowed her eyes on me and stepped out of view. “He’s awake.” The door swung open and the sound of her heels clicking on the Formica floor tiles faded down the hallway.

I sat up, dangling my legs from the side of the slab, my toes barely brushing the floor. My stomach ached, the dull hollow sensation a symptom of not eating for…how long was I out? The back of my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth – dry and scratchy – and my teeth. I touched my left canine and wasn’t quite sure it had always been that sharp and elongated.

“I took the liberty of bringing your personal effects.”

I jumped at the voice. In the dimly lit corner by the door stood a tall man with short clipped dark hair and eyes the color of flint. Close to his chest he held a tattered composition book and stared at the phone in his left hand, his long thumb scrolling through something on the screen. Because I’d only seen him in photographs, it took a moment before I recognized my Pa’s friend. “Mr. Holmes?”

“Please, Jon. Call me Sherlock. Do you know what year it is?”

“2020,” I said.

“And who is the Prime Minister?”

“May.” I hopped off of the metal table and turned to face Sherlock.

“What is the last thing you remember?”

“Waking up in there.” I pointed to the empty locker with one hand and held the white sheet around my waist with the other.

“Before that? What was the last thing you remember doing before awakening?” Sherlock’s gaze met mine.

My head throbbed and my throat burned. “I was attacked.” Bits and flashes of memory flooded my brain. Two lamps in the carriage were out and there was a man hunched in the far corner under a third lamp, the light flickering like the wheeze of a dying man. _Got any change?_ BANG. I shook my head, pressed the heel of my palm to my temple, and hissed – an inhuman sound. “How did?” I was unsure how to phrase the question.

“Get dressed. I’ll be in the hall.”

Moving felt unsteady and quite unnatural as though I was learning to do it again for the first time. I dressed as swiftly as possible and joined Sherlock in the hallway.

He leaned against the wall, his gaze passing over and through me. “Here. I imagine you’re quite thirsty.” Mr. Holmes offered a bag of…blood?

I blinked, terrified to take the bag from his grasp while simultaneously wanting to tear into the plastic and gorge myself. A second look at the bag and I noticed the red and white striped straw, sticking out of the top near the clamped off tubing. I found it so absurd I began to laugh. “Is this a joke?”

“Hardly. Jon your attacker wasn’t a vampire, but somehow you’ve become one.”

“And you’re one?”

Sherlock flashed a grin. His eyeteeth stretched into sharp points over the line of his bottom gums. “And I’m here to take you home.”

The tip of my tongue ran over the edge of my top teeth. “How?”

“Obvious, after you were rendered unconscious, a vampire came along – a young one, in his first year of university. He’s enrolled in night classes and the young vampire was part of a swim team, not specifically the university, but he had to drop out. Can’t swim during the day and his advantage now that breathing is nonobligatory would have been unfair for competition. He still frequents the university pool and wears a size twelve-and-one-half shoe. The young vampire saw an opportunity and seized it.”

I shuddered. “I was murdered?”

“Hardly. Although, judging by the fracturing of your skull from a blow to the head from your original attacker, had the vampire not found you, you would certainly be dead. The red-headed swimming night walker saved you from an untimely end.”

Tenderly, I touched the back of my head and felt nothing out of place. “How do you know all that about him?”

“The vampire left his notebook in the carriage with you.” Sherlock indicated the battered book. “There are notes for three separate classes, English, Biology, and Mathematics. No doubt he goes to school at night for very obvious reasons. The edges of the book are curled from being soaked in water and allowed to air dry. Discovering where the water had come from was a simple matter of chemical analysis, multiple water treatment chemicals in varying combinations offered only two possible solutions. Our young vampire swam in a pool where the staff responsible for cleaning and maintenance were completely incompetent or that he frequented more than one pool. It’s more likely the latter. In the inside flap of his notebook, he’s scrawled dates, times, and locations. A bit of research and each location is a facility with a pool. With the dates at fairly regular intervals, we can deduce he was attending practice. Drink the blood, Jon.”

I took the bag and sucked the sweet liquid through the tiny straw. My eyes rolled up with pure bliss. Blood is an unusual taste; to a human it has the rancor of licking a dirty penny, but to a vampire the nuances of flavor are astounding. I drank the whole thing, flattening the bag around the straw. How weird would I be if I tore into the plastic and licked it?

Sherlock strode to the door.

“Wait. How did you know about being a redhead and his shoe?” I quickened my pace to catch up with his lengthy gate.

“Police found you clutching several short red hairs, and I know his shoe size from the bruise on your upper left thigh, made by a Doc Marten boot,” he said.

“But I didn’t have a bruise on my leg, nor is my skull bashed in,” I said.

“The process of transformation from man to vampire erases injuries. I had to work swiftly once the incident was reported to collect evidence.”

I stopped for a second to process and then had to jog to catch up. “You saw me naked?” As a vampire I wasn’t capable of blushing.

“I took this photograph three days ago.”

I recognized my _parts_ and indeed there was a large blue and purple colored boot print on my leg. Sherlock turned left down another hallway and I followed.

“Where are we going?”

“221B Baker Street.”

 

###

 

I looked around the flat at Baker Street, the windows were fitted with light tight blinds, but the blackout curtains hanging from the rods looked like they’d been there since before WWII. “How long have you been a vampire?” My gaze passed into the kitchenette off the main sitting room, noticing a haphazard arrangement of laboratory equipment and a collection of…is that a brain in a jar?

“October 3, 1887,” said Sherlock.

I chewed my bottom lip, pensively. “So you’ve been a vampire for 133 years, then.”

Sherlock sighed and flopped down into an armchair by the hearth. A cloud of dust billowed up from the motley fabric. “Are you Watsons all in the habit of stating the obvious?”

. Being the product of a one-night-stand that turned into a fleeting relationship that ended before my first birthday, I knew my father about as well as I knew his friend sitting in front of me. Dr. John H. Watson, III was little more than a name attached to the money he’d left me after he died last year. I shrugged and eased into the chair opposite, moving was still awkward and I fell back into the seat more than I did a controlled drop

“You’ll get used to the way your body works now, but it may take a few days.” Sherlock pressed his hands together and rested his bottom lip against the edge of his steepled fingers. His brow knit together and he stared at me, flinty eyes moving over my face.

I squirmed. “I didn’t think vampires existed until a couple of hours ago,” I said.

“The impossible is possible, however improbable, but it’s still the truth. I struggled with that too, in the beginning.”

“So what do you do?” Someone who’s been around for over a century should know about being a vampire. I hoped that were the case, because I was clueless.

“Consulting detective,” said Sherlock.

“Is that what you and Pa were? Some crime solving duo?”

“Your father was more like my biographer.” Sherlock pointed a slender finger at the one set of bookshelves lined with leather-bound journals. They reached from the floor to almost the ceiling. Each spine neatly labeled with the dates going from July of 1886 all the way through the present date.

I whistled low through my teeth. “Did he write all of these?”

“No, Jon. Some were written by your father’s father. The first accounts were penned by my closest of friends, your great grand-father.”

“Like that book with the hobbit and the dragon? Where the uncle writes the first book and the nephew writes the next?”

“Sort of,” he said.

“I have a destiny? A legacy?” I rubbed my face with the palm of my hand, my gaze searching the ceiling for answers that weren’t there.

“A bit dramatic,” said Sherlock flatly.

“What if I don’t want to be your crime solving side-kick?” I tilted my head and stared at him.

Sherlock’s lips spread into a thin smile and his grey eyes glittered, “Then you’ll be missing out. Hello, Detective Inspector.”

 I turned to the door as a tall, smartly dressed black women stepped over the threshold. She stopped, put a hand on her hip and peered down at me for a second before looking at Sherlock. “Who’s this?” She asked.

“New biographer. What brings you here, Gregson?”

“Another one, same tattoo, but not laying in the bathtub with slit wrists, though. And we found this.” she said, handing an evidence bag to Sherlock.

“Where did you find it?”

“Beside the victim.”

“R-H-C-E,” Sherlock passed me the evidence bag.

“Isn’t that German for _revenge?_ ” Gregson asked.

Sherlock shook his head, a delighted smirk playing across his lips. “No, you’re thinking of _rache_.”

Gregson snorted, an amused chuckle rising from deep in her throat. “Take French classes and school and the only German word you learn is surrender.” She cleared her throat and straightened the collar of her jacket. “Save the note, we’ve left everything _in statu quo_.”

“Wonderful.” Sherlock leapt out of the chair and snatched his coat. “Where?”

“3 Lauriston Gardens.”

“I’ll take a cab,” Sherlock said, slipping into his coat and heading out the door.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Gregson stopped and snatched the evidence bag from my grasp. “Working for Holmes now? You need to be quicker. Come on.” She followed Sherlock out.

I scrambled up from my seat and caught up to Gregson on the landing. “Who are you?”

She turned and extended her hand. “Toni Gregson, Scotland Yard. And you are?”

I shook her hand. “Jon Watson.”

Gregson blanched, her eyes widening with a mixture of horror and mild fascination. She turned and moved down the stairs, muttering to herself, “My god, he breeds them.”

 

###

 

The rooms of 3 Lauriston Gardens had been unoccupied for some time and the building was without electricity. The lack of lighting did not adversely affect my vision, except in the case of Scotland Yard’s torches. The bulbs were inordinately bright. I understood why when Gregson’s light passed over Sherlock crouching by the corpse lying in a closet at the corner of the room. His flint colored eyes shined pure silver, light bouncing off the tapetum lucidum. Beautifully startling.

“So the other victims were found in their homes, dead in the bathtub?” I asked. Sherlock had told me as much in the cab on the way. Doors all locked, no evidence of struggle, the only similarity a gothic cross with four dots underneath tattooed on each victim’s left thumb. “Cult with Kool-Aid?”

Beside me, Gregson shifted her weight from one foot to another.  

I should have been utterly creeped out by the macabre scene before me, but I was more intrigued than afraid. Sherlock stooped over the body, scanning the poor dead soul’s clothes with a spy glass. The corpse’s limbs curled at odd angles, the legs and arms pulled up into a rigid position, not too unlike a dead bug or spider curling in on itself.

“Vampire?” Gregson asked.

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

“The others were human,” Gregson said.

My gaze went to the dead man’s mouth. His lips were drawn back in a ghastly scream, up away from elongated canines and his sallow flesh resembled cracking leather, the surface flaking away. “How can it be a murder if he’s already…dead?”

“This is a crime scene, Jon. Not Parliament,” said Sherlock.

“Is this how all vampires re-die? Looking like that?” I’d barely wrapped my mind around the concept that I was undead, but to be dead-dead and look like the cross between a roach and a flattened rugby ball made my head spin.

“Depends on the cause of death.” Sherlock looked up at me. “Care to make your own assessment, Dr. Watson?”

“I went to pharmacy school. I’m not a medical examiner,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Neither am I, but here we are.” Sherlock slipped his spy glass back into his coat pocket. “Go on, tell me what you see.” He stood up and moved aside for me.

A closer inspection of the skin revealed that the cracking was due to deep burns across the fellow’s cheeks and nose. “When a vampire dies like this, do they do a post-post-mortem?” I sniffed at the corpses gaping mouth. The smell was nothing like I had expected, a saccharine scent that made my mouth water and my guts clench with desire. The dead vampire smelled delicious. My mouth opened, fangs bared, instinct driving my body as my mind tried to understand the absurdity of my actions. I was a breath away from my tongue touching on the burned flesh when I was yanked back and flung into the wall with enough force to crack the plaster.

“As I thought,” said Sherlock. He positioned himself between me and the dead vampire.

“Thought what?” I snarled, wiping spittle from the corner of my mouth and brushing plaster dust from my shoulders. My composure returned slower than I would have liked it to.

“That note you found, Inspector, written by our victim, but dropped upon his end points to a very clear cause of death. Rh-negative blood. Delicious, but deadly to vampires.”

“Wait? So he brought someone here with poisonous blood and drank from them? Sounds more like suicide than murder,” I rubbed the back of my neck.

“There are clear signs,” Sherlock shouted.

“Not all of us can see in the dark, Holmes.” Gregson’s voice was sharpened by irritation.

“You’re perpetually in the dark,” Sherlock muttered.

I heard his words clearly, but Gregson either didn’t or chose to ignore Sherlock. “Go on, tell us then, please?”

“First, let’s consider the other cases. All of the victims were found in their homes, all of the windows and doors locked, dead in a bathtub with the tap running. Each one was still fully dressed, the wounds on their wrists apparently self-afflicted. All of them bearing the same tattoo and each person’s autopsy toxicology report confirming the heavy use of narcotics and scarring from vampire bites on various locations of their bodies, none of the bites deadly.

Now, our victim here was found in a closet. Why would someone hide his body in a closet, especially if he was to drink the Rh-negative blood in a North facing room with windows on both the East and West walls? Once the sun came up, it would do the work of the running water on our human victims. The killer did the same thing here as done previously, inflicted the pain and left them for dead, expecting the elements to do the job of erasing the evidence. While the closet was not light-tight, note the burns on our vampire’s skin, had he not used the last of his strength before perishing to crawl into the closet, as you can see clearly from the scratch and scuff marks along with the displaced dirt on the floorboards, and shut himself in, then Scotland Yard would have little more than a pile of ash to contend with.

I say murder because there was something very special about our killer. They have been made aware of their Rh-negative status, the effects on vampires, and have figure out a way to mask the scent. A human lacking the Rhesus protein in their blood smells extremely appetizing to vampires, which is probably why they compose only about 15% of the human population. Initially, I did not smell that particular odor upon entering the room, but around our vampire’s lips and mouth and as illustrated by Jon’s reaction to even the faintest whiff, I was able to deduce that our killer is indeed one of such genetic anomalies. Of course, the RHCE note left by our victim cements it as fact. RCHE being one of the genes that encodes the antigens for a person’s the Rh factor.

Now, we look at this vampire’s tattoo – the same symbol, but located on the palm of his right hand – he was their master. If a vampire wanted to experience the sensation of a high, he or she would need to feed from a drugged human, but our physiological processes work so rapidly, that to maintain the high would require several feedings from several humans. This is not a cult, Jon, but a coven. And its members have been systematically eliminated. If it weren’t for the closet, all of it would have been wrapped up so neatly for our killer.” Sherlock paused, clasping his hands behind his back.

I closed my mouth.

“Okay, so it was murder. What can you tell me about the perp?” Gregson asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Really inspector. Sometimes I think I do all the work so you can get all the credit.”

“Sometimes when I talk, I think all you hear is _moo_. Throw me something, Sherlock,” said Gregson.

I pretended to chew my thumbnail so I wouldn’t laugh at the Detective. For me the night had gone far past crazier than a sack of angry cats.

“You can remove the body.” Sherlock waved his hand, fingers fluttering as if to shoo the corpse away.

Two paramedics wheeled in a gurney and proceeded to put the dead vampire in a body bag. “Inspector, we found something,” said one of them.

Gregson and Sherlock turned at the same moment, but Gregson was closer and snatched the object up in her gloved fingers. “It’s a locket,” she said, turning it over in her hands. “Where was this?” She asked.

“Under his ass,” quipped the paramedic.

“What do you make of it, Sherlock?” Gregson reached into her pocket and handed the consulting detective a pair of latex gloves.

The sharp slap as the material hit against the skin of Sherlock’s wrists startled me. I peered over Gregson’s shoulder at the piece of jewelry. The gold heart shaped locket was a slight larger than a 10 pence with a filigree design stamped on both sides. “Where’s the chain?” I asked.

Sherlock took the locket in his hand and turned it over in his palm. “Obvious.”

Gregson shot me a look and I understood. There wouldn’t be much trouble for me if I punched Sherlock in the head. I sighed. “Do tell.”

“The loop that would fasten it to the chain is broken and has been for a while because what remains of the ring has had the sharp edges filed away. This piece of jewelry, while cheap was very loved. Cheap, yes. You can see the oxidation on the gold-plate from frequent handling and the hinges,” he paused and popped the locket open. “They are very loose.”

Inside the locket was a picture of a small boy with dark hair and dark eyes in a primary school uniform. The photograph had the slight sepia tinge of age.

“This locket was dropped by our murderer and fortunate for you, Inspector. Find this boy and you will find your murderer.”

“That should be easy enough.” Gregson held out her hand for the locket.

“One moment, Gregson. Jon, may I use your phone?”

“For what?” I asked.

“You have a camera. I do not. May I, Inspector?”

Gregson nodded her head and I handed over my camera phone. A moment later, Sherlock dropped the locket into the waiting evidence bag that Gregson held out.

“Shall we, Jon?” He asked while tapping around the screen of my phone. Sherlock handed the device back just as the sent email to _s_holmes@deductionscience.co.uk_ notification disappeared from the screen.

Gregson zipped up the evidence bag. “Well, I hardly needed you at all, Sherlock,” she said as she escorted us outside.

“You will always need me,” Sherlock said.

 

###

 

I awoke shortly after sunset the next evening to the sound of violin music. Grabbing my phone from the charger, I settled into my chair, resting my head on the plush cushion. Sherlock stood by the window, playing some classical tune that I couldn’t easily identify. Classical music was like rap music to me, except in the case of rap music I could tell the difference between songs that sounded exactly the same only because the rapper said their name repeatedly to a phat bass beat.

My phone pinged. I’d been technically dead for nearly a week before last night, so it seemed advantageous to clear out all of my app notifications, especially given that most of them were ‘friends’ posting to my Facebook wall about how much they would miss me. Oddly, all of them were either people I’d forgotten were on my friends list or people who I was only friends with because I gained a sense of satisfaction knowing that they failed at life – especially the few from high school who bullied me.

Knowing full well that I should ignore the notification, I looked anyway. “Sherlock?”

The violin whined and stopped. Sherlock glared at me.

Instead of shrinking back into the cushion, I sat forward. “Why is Gideon Lestrade from _Daily Mail_ e-mailing me about the locket?”

A smile spread across Sherlock’s face. He set his violin and bow into the open case on the desk. With fluidic grace, he leapt over the back of the lounge chair opposite me, sat, and leaned forward, staring intently. “Gideon is a veritable blood hound when it comes to such things. The man will do anything for a byline.”

I scanned my sent mail box. “Did you use my email to send the pictures of the locket to the newspaper?”

“Yes.”

“And who the hell are all these bloody other emails from?”

“One of them is the owner of the locket,” said Sherlock.

“One of them? There are more than 4,000 messages in my inbox. Why not use your own damn account?”

“I couldn’t very well tell Lestrade to put my contact information in the story, people would know the police were involved,” he said.

“But the police are involved.” I pointed out.

“My way is much faster.” Sherlock sat back in the chair and crossed his ankle over his knee. He took his phone from his pocket and tapped around the screen.

“Your way? And your phone does have a camera.” I made a grab for the device, but he was too fast for me.

“Police and their bureaucracy slow everything down. It’s a principle that is applicable to more than traffic.”

“What?” I scowled. Sherlock was looking at me like I should know what the hell he was talking about, but I didn’t. “Not a mind reader,” I reminded him.

“Or a logician,” he muttered. Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’m sure in your lifetime you’ve been caught in traffic that is moving at a crawl, only to see a few kilometers down the road that there is a police car.”

“People rubbernecking,” I sighed, although I did see his point. Even when a police car was moving with traffic, the pace usually slowed. Speeding was only a crime if you got caught. True of most things, really.

The door flew open and hit the wall with a bang. “Sherlock,” cried Gregson.

“Hello, Inspector. Did you park three blocks down and around the corner as I requested?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” Gregson snapped and strode over to the desk, pulling out the chair and plopping down. “I found the kid in the picture.”

“And?” Sherlock turned to look at her.

“He’s dead.”

“Obviously. Do you have the locket?”

Gregson pulled the crumpled evidence bag from her pocket ant threw it at Sherlock.

“Jon, do you have the time?” Sherlock tossed the bag to me and peered back at his phone.

I glanced at the clock on my phone, “9 o’clock.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Watson?” All three of us turned to the voice.

 

###

 

Mrs. Hope Jefferson was a slight woman, weathered by life, but strong. She’d survived two battles with cancer, and a third would likely do her in. She appeared on the threshold of 221B Baker Street at 9 o’clock on a cool Saturday evening, seeking the return of her lost locket.  Mrs. Jefferson wore a pink scarf, printed with cartoon calico cats, on her head and was otherwise dressed simply, khaki slacks and a dark collared shirt.

Sherlock stood when she entered the room and offered her his chair. No sooner was she comfortably seated than Sherlock asked, “How did you do it?”

From her seat, Gregson gasped. “You have got to be shitting me.”

“Pardon?” said Sherlock.

Mrs. Jefferson glanced from face to face, her delicate brow furrowing.

“Sherlock, you really expect me to believe that this old lady killed five people and a vampire?” Gregson scoffed. “No offense, ma’am.”

“None taken,” said Mrs. Jefferson.

From my vantage point, Sherlock was off his rocker.

“Because I did,” said Mrs. Jefferson.

I glanced between Toni Gregson, who’s facial expression was aghast, and Sherlock, who looked too smug for his own good.

Perching on the edge of the chair, Mrs. Jefferson cleared her throat and spoke with thickly accented English. “My family comes from Zarautz, Spain, A beautiful place by the sea. I had a son, his name was Louis and he was my little miracle. Carrying him was difficult, all of the weakness and pain. When he was born, the doctors said he should be dead, he’d come too early and was so very very small. But, my darling boy, he fought and lived and grew. For five years he defied expectations. One evening my son, Louis, and I walked home from church, a man grabbed us. At first I thought he was Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, a separatist, but as he put a black bag over my head, I caught a glimpse of his tattoo. We were taken to a house, one of the larger ones on the beach where tourists stay in the summer time.

Inside there was a vampire. He lunged for me, hands open to grab me. I saw his tattoo on his palm. I was pinned against the wall in his grip. Hissing, he barred his teeth, but did not bite. The vampire threw me to the floor and grabbed for Louis.

‘That one is poisoned,’ he said to his man. ‘Get rid of her, this will have to do.’ I screamed and screamed as I was dragged away. The man who’d taken me put the bag over my head again. For an hour, he drove and then he shoved me out of the car. The vampire’s man left me on a street in Bayonne.

Of course, I went to _la policìa_. I told them that my son had been stolen, but I did not know where the house was. For days, people searched for Louis, combing the beach and dragging the river. It was three days before they found him. They say that he drowned, but I knew.”

“Yes, yes, and you’ve wanted revenge ever since,” Sherlock interrupted.

“May I have my locket?” Mrs. Jefferson asked.

Sherlock opened the evidence envelope he held and passed the locket to Mrs. Jefferson. “Now, I would very much like to know the _how_.”

“Because it’s such an impartial question. So devoid of feelings. Right, Mr. Holmes?” asked Mrs. Jefferson.

I glanced at Sherlock, his gaze catching mine. He bounced his weight from foot to foot and turned back to the old woman sitting in his chair.

“I’m so very tired and not long for this world,” began Mrs. Jefferson. “After Louis funeral, I vowed to end the life of the ones who’d taken him from me, if I ever found them. I moved around, taking odd jobs, looking for them. My search led me to the dark side of London, the bars and clubs that cater to inhuman things – vampires, werewolves, the sort that everyone believes is fiction because something so fantastic can’t be real. I settled in and took a job as a cab driver. A few years afterward, I was diagnosed for the first time, cancer. I fought and I won and that’s how I discovered that I was a rarity – Rh-negative. The chemo did something much greater that just cure my disease, it made me invisible. Vampires couldn’t detect their poison coursing through my veins. It was like God had finally answered my prayers, my blood was how I would destroy them.

Years went by, the cancer came back and I refused to let it take me before I had my revenge. One day, I got lucky. In the dark hours of early morning, a man got into my cab, drugged and weak from being fed on. I didn’t know him, but I recognized his tattoo. Finally, after so many years, I’d found them. He was easy to convince, ‘let me help you into your flat.’ Stumbling drunks are an occupational hazard when you drive around this city late at night. ‘Get in the tub, so you won’t get sick all in your bed.’ The first one wasn’t very forthcoming, but he gave me a name – DuMassé. I waited until he was asleep, ran the tap, and.” She went silent, reaching into her pocket and producing a wood handled straight razor. Mrs. Jefferson flipped it open, the sharp edge catching the light.

“Put it down, Ma’am,” Gregson’s palm closed around her service pistol, ready to pull.

“Certainly,” Mrs. Jefferson said, placing the razor on the end table next to the chair. Gregson pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and gingerly picked up the weapon, depositing it into an evidence envelope.

“What about DuMassé?” I asked.

“The next few kills were just as easy as the first; my angel, Louis, he guided me. The last girl I killed bitched and moaned about how taxing it was to have a Master with such a spirit breaking lust for blood and power. She told me two important things: when to find him, and where to find him. Find him, I did. Outside of the club _Raven’s Hollow_ , I parked on the curb and waited.

Fortune favors the brave and DuMassé slid into the back seat of my cab. He gave me an address. I caught his gaze in the rearview mirror, eyes black with evil and malice. If I said I was not frightened, I would be lying. Louis, he was with me. He is forever with me.” Mrs. Jefferson tenderly stroked the picture inside the locket with her boney index finger. “I spoke to DuMassé. ‘No,” I said. ‘I am taking you somewhere and I am going the kill you.’ He laughed at me. What could I possibly do? A little old woman? He could tear my heart out right then if he had wanted to. DuMassé did not remember me. I told him, ‘I have something to show you first.’ He followed me willingly into the rooms at Lauriston, thinking me not a threat. He was an arrogant sot. When we arrived in the room at Lauriston Gardens, he acted as I had predicted and like the vile creature he was, attacked me.” Mrs. Jefferson unfastened the top two buttons beneath her collar and tugged the dark cotton down over her left shoulder.

A wide swatch of medical tape held a wad of white gauze against her withered skin. “As soon as his teeth pierced my flesh, DuMassé realized he would die, it was then that I showed him the picture of Louis. His expression of sheer terror was quite satisfying. I let him take the locket and I left him.”

“You were counting on the sun to erase the evidence,” Sherlock said.

“Even this would have been obliterated and I could die in peace.” Mrs. Jefferson closed the locket with a snap.

Sherlock paced back and forth for a moment. He paused at the mantel and leaned against it, bracing himself with his palm. “Revenge?” He asked, pursing his lips in thought.

“Everything I did was for justice,” said Mrs. Jefferson.

“Tell it to a judge.” Gregson cuffed the woman.

I watched from the window as Mrs. Hope Jefferson was loaded into the back of a squad car.

 

###

 

Another knock sounded at the door. “Did that Lestrade fellow send everyone here about the bloody locket?” I mused toward Sherlock. He sat in his recently vacated chair, thumbing through a very large, very old journal belonging to my great-grandfather.

“Nope,” he said.

I opened the door to a red headed man wearing a yellow tartan scarf under a blue pea-coat, faded jeans, and Doc Marten boots. In his grasp, he held a composition notebook. “Can I help you?”

“Hello, Mr. Watson. Chadwick Murray, but my friends all call me Chad,” he said, extending his hand as he flashed a toothy grin. Vampire.

“Jon’ll do.” We shook.

Chad breezed by me, his head turning every which way, and whistling as though he were impressed by the meager accommodations of Baker Street. “It’s good to finally meet you. I’ve been looking for you for the last few days, went to your old flat every night. If it weren’t for that story in the paper about that locket, I probably never would have found you.”

I arched an eyebrow. “And _why_ have you been looking for me?”

Chad offered the notebook to me, “I took your notebook by mistake that night. Any chance you’ve got mine? I need my notes – Finals are next week.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, confused.

“I’m your maker, sire, creator-thing.” Chad stumbled over his words.

I snorted a laugh. There was no possible way I was the progeny of this sharp-toothed hipster kid.

Sherlock popped up from his chair and opened a desk drawer. “Here you are, Chad.” He handed him the raggedy notebook that he’d shown me in the morgue.

My mouth fell open. _No_. My brain sputtered to catch up. “How? Why? Why me?”

“You asked me. The guy who robbed you ran off when I got into the carriage. You were in and out of consciousness. You told me ‘Don’t let me die.’ I dialed 999, but they weren’t quick enough, so I turned you.” Chad shrugged as though a man dying in the tube were a normal occurrence.

I took the notebook from Chad’s outstretched hand and thumbed through the pages.

“Your writing is really good. Sorry, I got a tad nosy.” Chad shrugged and took his own notebook from Sherlock. “Thanks. See you around.” He said and left.

“That was very strange.” I said, sitting back in my chair with the notebook on my lap, pen in hand.

The phone rang.

 

###

 

“At least it’s over now. Thank you.” I hung up. “That was Gregson, Sherlock.”

Sherlock peered over the top of his book at me. His grey eyes caught the light and he lowered the tome to his lap. “What did she want?”

“Mrs. Jefferson died. Gregson said she passed somewhere between here and the station, she was dead when they went to get her from the car. Natural causes.” I sighed. “I can’t believe she was sitting there,” I pointed to Sherlock’s chair. “A half hour ago.”

“I can, when you get to be as old as I am, you’ll be able to smell it.” Sherlock picked his book back up.

“Smell what?”

“Everything that’s in the blood, even death, Jon.”

I stared at the words I’d written across the top of the page in my notebook. _From the diary of Jonathan M. Watson, PhD._


End file.
